


J'ai Pas Envie

by sightofthesun



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Angst, Anxiety, Flashbacks, Gen, Lams - Freeform, M/M, OCs - Freeform, POV Outsider, Panic Attacks, don't mind them, i'm addicted to outsider POV sorry, jk, lots of em - Freeform, the tiniest tiniest bit, they're nice kids, yeah idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-27 22:37:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6302911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sightofthesun/pseuds/sightofthesun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex has a panic attack in the middle of class.</p><p>His students are convinced he's going into cardiac arrest.</p><p>*</p><p>Or that random AU in which Alex is a high school teacher and still hates Jefferson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sup kids. I read this one fic where Alex is a high school teacher (I've been searching for it for ages but for the life of me can't find it because I don't remember the title) and I really liked the idea, so I basically took that and ran with it. I love outsider POV so that's what this became.
> 
> Title isn't relevant to the fic whatsoever but I couldn't think of anything else. It's a song by Mika and you should all go listen to it.

They’re in fourth period when it happens. Honestly, Brent’s not paying much attention to the lesson. There’s just over an hour left of class, it’s a sunny winter day outside, and his desk is right beside the window. American history is pretty much the last thing on his mind at the moment, which is why he doesn’t even realize anything’s wrong until Jessica elbows him.

“What,” he hisses, shaken from visions of after-school pond hockey. Jessica leans across the aisle of desks to whisper to him.

“Don’t you think Mr. Hamilton looks a little…off?” 

Brent’s eyes flick to the front of the class, where Mr. Hamilton is lecturing about a historical figure that, to be honest, Brent’s never head of before in his life. He squints at his teacher’s face, which, okay, really is looking off.

“Dude,” he mutters to Jessica. “Is he okay?”

“It sure doesn’t look like it,” she responds, and alright, that’s a little harsh, but it’s true. Mr. Hamilton’s already huge eyes are wider than usual, face chalky-looking. He pauses in his lecture to drag visibly shaking hands through his hair, which, to the best of Brent’s memory, Mr. Hamilton’s only worn down when he’s been exceptionally stressed, and also that one time when he’d lost his hair elastic after shooting it in Mr. Jefferson’s face while the two of them were supervising a debate club meeting.

“At the age of seventeen, his town was struck by a hurricane,” Mr. Hamilton is saying about the nameless individual. His usual enthusiasm is gone, voice uncharacteristically quiet. “Most of his existing friends and neighbours drowned, and with his remaining family members either dead or gone, he-” Mr. Hamilton picks a pen up off of his desk, but his hands are shaking so hard he promptly drops it.

The pen clatters to the floor, and the heads of the few students who hadn't already been watching with concern now snap to attention.

“Sir,” Brent turns to see Trevor half-risen from his desk. “Are you okay?”

Mr. Hamilton doesn't answer for a moment, and the silence hangs heavily over the class. The sound of their teacher pulling in a ragged breath is almost jarringly loud. After what seems like an eternity, he speaks.

“Would you mind getting Eliza - sorry, Ms. Schuyler, Trevor, if you could?”

The request is so unexpected that there’s a beat during which the class seems frozen in their bewilderment.

“Yeah,” Trevor says slowly, “for sure.”

It probably only takes about a minute for Trevor to return with Ms. Schuyler, but it’s easily the longest and most tense minute of Brent’s life. He glances at Jessica, who shoots him back a helpless look. They both turn back to the front of the class, where Mr. Hamilton has braced his hands on the edge of his desk, head down. He’s still shaking.

The door flies open to reveal Trevor and a harried-looking Ms. Schuyler, the latter of whom takes one look at Mr. Hamilton and turns to address the class.

“Grab your things and go to the other Ms. Schuyler’s room. You’ll stay there for the rest of the day.”

The students exchange glances, baffled. No one moves.

“Go!” It’s the first time Brent’s heard Ms. Schuyler raise her voice - this Ms. Schuyler, anyway, not the older one - and the class doesn’t need to be told twice. There’s a flurry of motion as people scramble to grab their bags, and then they’re being herded out the door.

“Wait - what do we tell her?” someone asks as they’re shoved into the hallway.

“You don’t have to tell her anything,” Ms. Schuyler responds, already closing the door.

“But what’s even going o-” The door shuts, leaving thirty troubled students in an empty hall.

For a moment, no one speaks. Then -

“What the hell just happened? 

“Is he dying?”

“Dude, I think he went into cardiac arrest.” 

“No, I think it was a stroke.”

“He’s too young to have a stroke!”

“Not necessarily. You know how high-strung he is…”

“It was definitely cardiac arrest.”

“Everyone shut up!”

The class clams up as Jessica steps forward. “You heard Ms. Schuyler, she wants us out of here, so let’s go.”

There’s a couple more mutters about a stroke, but everyone eventually migrates down the hall to the other Ms. Schuyler’s classroom, too perplexed by the events of the last couple minutes to consider skipping class.

Someone knocks on the door and they wait for a moment before it’s opened by the older Ms. Schuyler, holding a stack of textbooks.

“What is i - oh.” She leans to the side and sets the books down on a table, then steps out into the hall. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” 

“We’re Mr. Hamilton’s American history class,” Jessica supplies. “He - I don’t know. Something happened. He’s with, the other Ms. Schuyler, um, your sister - she told us to come here.”

“I think he had a heart attack,” someone says unhelpfully.

Ms. Schuyler nods, frowning. “Okay. My class is just finishing a test. Wait here quietly for ten minutes or so, and then you can join us. Do _not_ leave this hallway.”

That last sentence is directed at a few students who, by the looks of it, have begun edging toward the stairwell. Ms. Schuyler quells them with one of her patented sharp looks and they sheepishly return to the group.

As soon as Ms. Schuyler’s back in her room, the chattering starts again.

“I’m telling you guys it was cardiac arrest.” Nice, Trevor. Brent loves the guy, but he’s not exactly tactful.

“I hope he’s okay.”

“If he dies do we still get the credit for his class?”

“Shut _up!_ ” This time it’s not only Jessica, but Brent as well, who hisses at the rest of the class. 

Everyone falls into an uneasy silence, broken only by Cassidy, who repeats, “I hope he’s okay.”

Brent chews on that worriedly for a while. Although American history isn't exactly his favourite course, he really, really likes Mr. Hamilton, and he knows the rest of the class does too. It’s impossible not to, really, and he definitely doesn't want to think about the possibility of someone so young, so full of - fuck, he doesn't know, full of life and, and energy, dying.

Plus, he’s pretty sure Mr. Hamilton is engaged, and it would seriously suck to die right before your own wedding.

After several whisper- and worry-filled minutes, the door opens again.

“Alright, grab your bags,” Ms. Schuyler says. “Hope you guys like learning about Thomas Paine.”

The class picks up their things but no one moves yet.

“Ms. Schuyler,” someone finally pipes up. “Do you - do you know what happened?”

Ms. Schuyler’s mouth flattens out. “I’m afraid that’s not your concern right n-” 

“Ange!” She’s cut off by the sound of a man’s voice, and Brent turns to see a young man in what looks like nurse’s scrubs running down the hall towards them.

“John, thank God,” Ms. Schuyler exclaims, and as the man draws closer Brent can see that he’s breathing heavily, freckled cheeks rosy from the cold and jacket unzipped as if he’d run here.

“Where-” he begins.

“Last door to the right,” Ms. Schuyler says. The man nods gratefully and sets off for the classroom that they've all just left.

“In,” Ms. Schuyler orders before anyone can ask anything else, and the class files into her room obediently.

They end up standing awkwardly at the back of the classroom while the other class copies down a note. Brent hovers in the corner with Jessica and Trevor, where they hold a whispered conversation.

“Who was that?” Brent mutters. “And why did he go to our classroom?”

“John, I’m guessing, whoever that is,” Jessica responds, tucking a few of her braids behind her ear. “He knows Ms. Schuyler, anyway,” (“He called her Ange,” Trevor whispers, amazed.) “and I’m guessing he knows Mr. Hamilton, too.”

“Maybe he really is dying,” Trevor says. “And this John guy is like, his next of kin or some shit.”

Brent and Jessica both stare at him incredulously, then proceed to ignore him.

“Maybe John’s his fiancé,” Jessica suggests.

“What?” Trevor splutters. “Mr. Hamilton’s not-”

“How would you possibly know?” Jessica challenges, and she’s right, Brent realizes. Mr. Hamilton’s never mentioned his fiancé by name, never mentioned a ‘he’ or ‘she’ - in fact, Mr. Hamilton hardly talks about his personal life at all.

“True,” he and Trevor end up admitting in unison.

“That still doesn't explain why he’s here, though,” Brent says, “or what happened.”

The conversation somewhat dissipates after that, none of them having a good answer.

After about half an hour there’s just over twenty minutes left until the final bell, and Brent’s got one hell of a headache. The room is hot and crowded with twice the amount of the usual bodies inside, and the constant buzz of conversation is grating.

Brent raises his hand to ask to go to the washroom and escapes into the cool, silent hallway. He lets out a long breath and massages his temples a few times before setting off down the hall.

He doesn't actually need to go to the washroom, so he meanders about, stopping by the water fountain to take a much-needed drink after the heat of the classroom. He leans against the wall outside of an English classroom and checks Twitter on his phone for something to do.

Brent’s head jerks up at the sound of voices and he ducks into the alcove near the entrance to the washrooms, not eager to be sent back to class just yet. He leans out a little so he can see into the hallway - just as Mr. Hamilton walks into his line of sight.

Well, kind of walks. Mr. Hamilton’s leaning heavily into the man from earlier, John, who has an arm wrapped tightly around Mr. Hamilton’s shoulders. Mr. Hamilton’s got John’s jacket from earlier draped over his shoulders and it hangs around his frame, far too big. He looks…exhausted. Wrecked, even. His face is positively ashen, save for his red-rimmed eyes, his hair sticking up in all directions as if he’s run his hands through it numerous times, which, Brent figures, he probably has.

It’s a shock, frankly, to see a teacher in such a state of disarray. Brent can’t reconcile what he’s seeing with his previous image of Mr. Hamilton - bright, outspoken, and animated. This Mr. Hamilton just looks tired.

_Fucking shit_ , Brent thinks to himself, because he’s positive they'll hear him if he says it aloud. _What the hell happened in there?_

Brent draws back into the alcove as they near him. He can’t see them anymore, but their voices echo into the washroom behind him.

“…sure?” asks an vaguely familiar voice, which must be John. “Because I _can_ carry you, if you want.”

“Keep reminding me how small I am, why don't you?” Mr. Hamilton’s voice sounds scratchy, devoid of its usual zeal. “But I can walk on my own, thank you very much.”

“Alex…”

“John…”

They exchange a few words that Brent can’t quite catch, and -

“I know, Alex,” John says, and his voice is so soft that Brent barely picks it up. “Let’s go home.”

Feeling like he just witnessed something intensely private, Brent leans against the wall and counts to one hundred before stepping into the hallway again. Mr. Hamilton and John, who Brent is like, 90% sure is the mysterious fiancé now, are nowhere in sight.

Brent’s been out of class for well over ten minutes now, and it’s been several months since his last detention, so he takes one last look down the hallway and then hauls ass back to the classroom.

He’s able to slip back inside with nothing aside from a warning look from Ms. Schuyler, and he hurries to the back of the room, where Jessica and Trevor are still in their corner.

“Dude,” Trevor says when he finally catches sight of Brent. “Where have you been? School’s almost ove-”

“He’s not dead!” Brent cuts him off. Trevor and Jessica both look at him, nonplussed.

“Mr. Hamilton,” he clarifies. “He’s not dead. I saw him, in the hallway.”

“How did he look?” Jessica questions.

Brent hesitates. He’s not tactless enough to divulge what he actually saw, but he doesn't exactly want to flat-out lie to his friends, either. He settles for ambiguity.

“Not good,” he admits finally. “He was, like, really pale. And he was leaning on that John guy the whole time.”

“So do you know what happened?” Jessica prods further, right as Trevor demands, “So was it cardiac arrest?”

“I don't know,” Brent tells them honestly. “But I don't think it was cardiac arrest. They said they were ‘going home,’ and I’m pretty sure cardiac arrest would warrant a visit to the hospital.” 

Trevor looks somewhat disappointed, Jessica triumphant. 

“I knew John was his fiancé!” she exclaims, then glances over her shoulder to ensure that Ms. Schuyler didn't hear. 

“That’s not concrete evidence,” Trevor protests, but he doesn't sound quite convinced of his own point.

Jessica opens her mouth, but at that moment the bell rings to signal the end of the day. The two classes rush out of the room in a flurry of jackets and backpacks, and Brent’s thoughts of concern are forgotten in favour of pond hockey plans.

Later that night, however, he meticulously completes every last stitch of his unfinished American history homework.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! Hope everyone had a great Easter, if you celebrate it. So here's the deal: I'm just going to go straight into the chapter and I'll hash out my plans for this fic (and others) in the notes at the end.
> 
> Enjoy!

Mr. Hamilton’s not at school the next day.

Brent enters the American history classroom to see most of the other students standing in a huddle in the middle of the room, and a teacher that’s definitely not Mr. Hamilton writing something on the whiteboard.

“What’s going on?” he asks as he draws closer to the gaggle of students, and a familiar head of braids swivels around to answer him.

“He’s still not here,” Jessica begins, only to be cut off by Trevor, who comes up behind Brent, sporting an impressive forehead bruise from a pond hockey mishap the night before.

“Half glad Mr. Hamilton’s not here because I haven’t even started the essay that’s due on Friday, half worried he’s not here because, you know.”

“We should just ask him!” someone in the group says to the others, and there’s a few murmurs of assent before Brent turns to see Lina step forward and make her way to the front of the class.

“Excuse me, Mr…” She trails off, addressing the substitute teacher, who turns around in annoyance.

“Lee,” he supplies.

“Mr. Lee,” Lina says. “Where’s Mr. Hamilton?”

The whole class has gone silent, eyes trained on the front of the room as they wait for an answer.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Lee responds, then picks up his phone off of the teacher’s desk and starts typing something, the conversation seemingly over.

The second bell rings, signalling the beginning of class, and the group dissolves as the students traipse dutifully to their desks.

Mr. Lee puts his phone down and opens his mouth to speak, only to stop when he sees a raised hand. He frowns but points to the student. Brent can’t really see whoever it is from his desk, but he thinks it might be Lina again.

“Sir?” It’s Lina.

“Yes?”

“Do you at least know if Mr. Hamilton is okay?”

Mr. Lee’s frown deepens. “No. I already told you I don't know. Now, if you don't mind, I see your teacher has made an executive decision to skip over the unit on Thomas Jefferson, which I can’t say I approve of, so-”

“Sir?”

Lee turns around from where he’d been in the process of writing Thomas Jefferson’s name on the board to see four more raised hands.

“Sir,” Cassidy repeats, hand still raised. “Sorry, but do you know if Mr. Hamilton is, like, at least alive?”

Brent’s not certain, but he swears he sees Lee roll his eyes.

“I’m sure he’s not dead,” he assures them, already turning back to the board. “Let’s not be dramatic.”

“But sir!” This time it’s Ahmed speaking, hand in the air as well. “Can you at least tell us when he’ll be back?”

“No,” Lee says, voice growing thin. He doesn't turn around to face the class this time. “Because I don’t know.”

“Are you going to be teaching us tomorrow, too?” Jessica asks without raising her hand, and Brent holds in a smile when Lee sets down the whiteboard marker with a bit more force than necessary. 

When Lee turns around, there’s a vein visible in his forehead that Brent’s pretty sure wasn't there before.

“I - don’t - know,” he spits out. “I don’t _know_. Are we clear?”

The class is silent. Lee glares at them for several moments before finally turning around again, aggressively snatching up his marker. A minute passes in tense silence until a familiar voice speaks up.

“So do you know if he went into cardiac arrest yesterday?”

They don't learn much that day.

*

After class Brent, Jessica, and Trevor gather in the hallway.

“Dude!” Trevor exclaims. “Best. History class. Ever. Did you see Lee’s face when he unlocked his phone and saw that Ahmed and Cassidy had set a selfie of them as his home screen when he was busy yelling at me?”

“I don’t know,” Jessica says, “I’d say the best history class was that one time Mr. Hamilton got so mad he stood on his desk and called Mr. Adams a, and I quote, ‘fat motherfucker.’”

“Nah,” Brent joins in. “It was definitely that time he brought in that French guy as a ‘guest speaker’ and they spent the entire class making innuendos about baguettes and insulting Mr. Jefferson.”

“Oh my God, I forgot about that,” Jessica snickers. “How does he even get away with this stuff?”

“I have no fucking idea,” Brent admits. “But at any rate, I’m willing to go to his house myself and drag him back here if it means we won’t have to have Lee again tomorrow.”

The others mutter in agreement.

“You know,” Jessica says suddenly, “we could always just go and ask Ms. Schuyler if he’ll be back - and how he’s doing, if you guys want. I mean, they’re friends, plus she was there yesterday when…yeah.”

“Which Ms. Schuyler?” Trevor asks, high-fiving a classmate as he walks by.

“The younger one,” Jessica answers, right as Brent says, “The less scary one.”

Jessica raises an eyebrow and he shrugs. “It’s true.”

“So then why don't we go now?” Trevor proposes. “I’m pretty sure she doesn't have a class during fourth period, but she might be in her room anyway.”

“Sure, why not?” Brent says.

“I don't have to be at work until 5,” Jessica says, glancing at her watch, “so that works for me.”

“Isn’t there, like, a third Schuyler too?” Trevor asks as they mount the stairs to the third floor. “Like a younger sister or something?”

“I think so,” Brent says, panting a little because damn, his cardio sucks. “I had the older Ms. Schuyler for English Lit last year and she had a bunch of pictures of her, her sister, and some other girl on her desk.”

They reach the landing, Jessica not having even broken a sweat - in fact, Brent’s not sure he’s ever seen her sweat before, because she’s fucking weird and actually enjoys exercising on a regular basis. She holds the stairwell door open for them with a smirk.

“Don’t even say anything,” Trevor warns, and her smirk broadens.

The door to Ms. Schuyler’s room is open and they can see her typing on her laptop, a stack of papers resting on her desk beside her.

Brent knocks on the doorframe and she swivels around in her chair. There’s a tired smile on her face, like she already knows what they’re going to ask (she probably does).

“Hello again, Trevor,” she says, “and friends. Come on in.”

They step hesitantly into the classroom.

“I’m guessing you're here for updates on Mr. Hamilton?”

“Yeah,” Jessica begins. “We weren’t sure if…” She trails off.

Ms. Schuyler shuts her laptop and gestures in front of her desk. “Go ahead and grab a seat.”

The three of them glance at each other before snagging some chairs from the first row of desks and dragging them to form a sort of half-circle in front of Ms. Schuyler’s desk.

“You can sit down,” she says when they remain standing. “I’m not that intimidating, am I?”

She laughs, and it puts Brent a little more at ease. There’s not really a precedent for a conversation with a teacher about your teacher who may have almost died yesterday, and he’s not really sure what to say.

Thankfully, Ms. Schuyler takes care of that for them. 

“Before you all ask anything,” she tells them, voice neutral, “I’d like to make it clear that I won’t be able to answer all of your questions. Not only are you three students and he a teacher, but I’m also not in the habit of giving out people’s personal information without their permission.”

Brent nods, and from the corner of his eye he can see his friends doing the same.

“Perfect,” Ms. Schuyler says. “Okay. What do you want to know?”

“Is Mr. Hamilton okay?” Jessica asks, right off the bat.

Ms. Schuyler smiles thinly. “‘Okay’ is a bit of a relative word. He’s not in danger, if that helps. He’s not dying, he didn't even go to the hospital. So, yes, in terms of…physical health, he’s okay.”

Her careful wording sets Brent a little on edge, but he figures she's skirting around something for a reason.

“Do you know what - what actually happened yesterday?” Brent questions. “When - you know.”

Ms. Schuyler’s mouth flattens into a line, resemblant of her sister the day before.

“Yes,” she says after a while, “I do know what happened, but I’m afraid that will remain between Mr. Hamilton and I, and whoever else he chooses to tell.”

“So was it a heart attack?” Trevor asks, and Brent rolls his eyes so hard he’s momentarily afraid they’ll stay that way. “Or car - ow!”

“Ignore him, please,” Jessica says to Ms. Schuyler, still pinching Trevor’s arm under the table. “He’s just stupid, and clearly didn't hear what you _just said to us._ ” This last bit is directed at Trevor, who has the decency to avert his eyes.

“When will he be back at school?” Brent asks, hastily changing the subject. Ms. Schuyler takes a couple more seconds to glare at Trevor - Brent can’t really blame her - and then turns to him.

“As far as I know, tomorrow,” she informs them. “I don't know if he’ll be exactly…running at 100%, but I’m honestly surprised he stopped working even for one day.”

The three of them nod as if they know exactly what she’s talking about.

“Anything else?”

Brent looks at the others and shrugs; Trevor and Jessica return the gesture.

“I guess not,” Trevor says, and the three of them stand.

“Thank you, Ms. Schuyler,” Jessica says as they return the chairs to their respective desks, and Brent and Trevor parrot back the same.

“It’s no problem,” she says, “but one more thing before you go.”

They stop halfway to the door and turn to look at Ms. Schuyler, who beckons them back.

“Don’t ask questions,” she tells them once they’ve gathered around her desk again, “tomorrow, when he gets back. Just…don't ask him anything about yesterday.”

“But-” Trevor begins, but he shuts up when she shoots him a look. Those looks must be a family thing, Brent figures.

“I know you're all curious. But remember, teachers are human beings too. If he wants to talk, he’ll talk. Just don't ask him anything. Are we all on the same page?”

They all nod and murmur their assent, and they're almost out the door when she calls to them one more time.

“He’d be glad to know his students care so much about him. Also, Trevor, I’m sure he’d like me to remind you to get your essay done, which I’m quite sure you haven’t finished yet.”

As soon as they're in the hallway, Trevor turns to Brent and Jessica. 

“It was the cardiac arrest comment that did it, wasn't it?”

*

When fourth period rolls around the next day, there’s yet another crowd of students, this time in the hallway.

“What’s up?” Jessica asks as she approaches Trevor and Brent, who are hanging off to the side of the group.

“Class is empty, door’s locked,” Trevor tells her, jerking his head toward the doorway.

“Fuck,” Jessica says, “Mr. Hamilton’s always early-”

“-Which means we have another substitute today,” Brent finishes glumly. “I swear to God, if it’s Lee I’m skipping class and going home.”

“Hear, hear,” Trevor mutters, and Jessica sighs.

The substitute still hasn't shown by the time the bell rings to signify the start of class, and Brent’s seriously considering leaving when he hears a familiar voice from the opposite end of the hallway.

“So then I turn to Laf, and I’m like ‘what a two-faced jackass,’ and Laf turns to me, dead serious, and asks - and I quote - ‘what does that mean, two-faced?’”

The swarm of students turns, seemingly as one, to see Mr. Hamilton walking down the hall, a frankly _massive_ travel mug in his hand. John’s beside him, nodding sagely, scrubs gone in favour of regular clothes.

Mr. Hamilton takes a long gulp from his coffee and continues. “And I’m like, ‘what,’ because I’ve been calling Madison two-faced for years, and most of the times Laf was present, and it never once occurred to him to ask what it means? I mean, how does one wait _years_ \- hey kids,” he pauses as he approaches the class, fishing his keys out of his pocket, “one sec - years to ask about a word that has literally been the _entire_ subject of most of my Madison rants?”

“French people,” John says, shaking his head as if that explains it.

“Exactly. Now if you’ll kindly excuse me, I’ve got a class to teach.”

John makes a move of some sort towards Mr. Hamilton, but then stops himself and smiles instead.

“Bye, Alex,” he says before turning and heading back the way he came.

Brent can’t help but feel like they’ve all just missed something.

Mr. Hamilton unlocks the door and steps aside to let the class in. There’s a lull in the doorway as the students seem to wait for something, and Mr. Hamilton bangs his mug against the doorframe.

_“Allez-y, rentrez!”_

People finally start to file inside, and Brent hazards a glance at his teacher as he follows Jessica into the classroom.

Mr. Hamilton’s still a little pale, bags under his eyes more prominent than ever, and his hands might be trembling a little where they hold his coffee. His hair, Brent notes, is down.

Mr. Hamilton offers no explanation for the events of his last class, but instead launches straight into a brand new lesson, apparently having decided to abandon the historical figure whose name Brent still can’t recall. He seems mostly unchanged, enthusiasm having made nearly a full comeback, but there’s still a slight edge of nervousness to him, like he’s waiting for something unpleasant to occur.

Every time a hand is raised Mr. Hamilton flinches a little, smile faltering, and it isn't until class is almost over that Brent realizes he’s probably waiting for them to start asking about what went on the other day.

The question never comes, and Brent’s never felt more fond of his classmates.

The rest of the class passes uneventfully, and Brent can see Mr. Hamilton visibly relax when the bell rings.

“Have a good night, guys,” he calls to the class as they pack up their bags, and Brent waves at him as he follows his friends into the hallway.

“Thank God no one asked any stupid questions,” Brent says once they're out of earshot. “Did you see how anxious he looked?”

“Don’t thank God,” Trevor tells him, “thank Jessica.”

“What?”

“Check the class group chat.”

Brent retrieves his phone from his pocket and unlocks it, opening up the history group chat.

_2 unread messages_

**Jessica *sunglasses emoji*  
First person to ask mr hamilton a rude question about you-know-what gets shanked by me**

**Jessica *sunglasses emoji*  
You all think im kidding but im not. have some basic courtesy**

Brent looks up, grinning. “You,” he says to Jessica, “are my hero.”

“All in a day’s work,” she sing-songs, pretending to examine her nails. “You guys wanna hit up Subway on the way home? I’m starving and there’s a chicken-bacon-caesar calling my name.”

“I’m down,” Trevor offers, and they both turn to look at Brent, who shakes his head.

“Sorry guys,” he says, “but I gotta go see my physics teacher about a new textbook since _someone_ spilled root beer all over mine.”

“Sorry about that,” says Trevor, sounding not at all sorry. “I’ll guy you a sub to make up for it?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Brent assures him, “Subway’s way overpriced. I’ll meet you guys there in like half an hour.”

“Sure thing,” Jessica says, and Trevor nods as they part ways.

Mr. Franklin’s just leaving the classroom as Brent shows up, already locking the door behind him.

“Sorry Brent, I’m not offering homework help today, I’ve got to run to the dentist.”

“I just have to exchange a textbook, if that’s okay, sir,” Brent says hurriedly. “My friend spilled his drink on mine. I’ll be quick, I promise.”

Mr. Franklin removes his key from the lock and holds the door open for Brent. 

“Go right ahead. There should be some in the storeroom. I’ve got to leave, so if you could turn out the lights and shut the door on your way out? I’ll lock it now so all you’ll have to do is close it.”

“Thanks a lot, sir,” Brent says to his teacher’s already retreating back.

The classroom is empty and silent, Brent’s footsteps loud as he crosses the room. The storeroom is thankfully unlocked, although the door handle’s a bit stiff, and Brent fumbles around for the light switch before illuminating the dark room.

It seems that nothing needs storing except textbooks, because they’re just about the only thing lining the towering shelves. It takes Brent several minutes to find the right book, and he leaves his root beer-stained copy on the shelf with the others, not really sure what to do with it. He tucks his new textbook under his arm and goes to open the door. 

It doesn’t open. 

Brent jiggles the handle, which, instead of moving, makes an oddly loud grinding noise.

“Shit,” he mutters. It’s stuck, then.

He’s not too worried. The English hallway runs parallel to the science hall, so there’s a door on the other side of the storeroom that should open to another classroom, as long as it’s unlocked.

Brent crosses the storeroom to the other door, which is fortunately ajar. He’s about to grab the handle but stops at the sound of voices.

“…wasn’t that bad, really,” comes a voice that Brent’s been overhearing way too often. 

Well, shit. The English hall, parallel to the science hall, contains history classes, too. Including an American history classroom that Brent just left about twenty minutes ago. A classroom in which Mr. Hamilton is currently having a conversation with -

“I can tell when you’re lying, Alex.” John. Who else?

Brent edges forward to see through the crack between the door and doorframe, because maybe he can just walk through, but as soon as he gets eyes on the two of them it’s clear that this isn’t a conversation he should be interrupting.

He’s got sort of a diagonal view, so he can see Mr. Hamilton’s back and the corner of his face, and most of John, who’s got a concerned expression.

“I’m not lying, John, it wasn’t _too_ bad today. Having you here was - nice.”

John smiles, that melty kind of smile that pretty much confirms the whole fiancé thing, and opens his mouth to say something when Mr. Hamilton speaks up again.

“I mean - none of my older kids asked anything about the other day, which was, to be honest, a little bizarre, because you’d think that they’d be the most curious since they were _there_ , but thank fuck they didn’t. But-”

John moves a little closer, smile gone but face still all soft and melty. “But?” he prompts.

“A bunch of my first and second period students asked, and even more during third, and. I don’t know. There was no way in all of hell that I was gonna tell them the truth but I wasn't gonna dodge their questions with a lie, either, because everyone knows that that’s just asking for fucking Jefferson to take it and spin a story out of it, so every time one of them asked I just pulled up the teacher-student confidentiality regulation from the school website on the projector and read it out for them word for word, which I know was kind of a dick move, but really, what else could I have done, because-”

“Alex,” John gently cuts into Mr. Hamilton’s rambling, but Mr. Hamilton either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t pay attention, because he continues, voice growing slightly hysterical.

“I mean, it’s not as if I could - could just fucking tell them the _truth_ , can you imagine? Yeah, kids, I just had a panic attack in the middle of class - oh yeah, no big deal, I’m just so fucking mentally unstable that I can’t even give a lesson on some random teen’s town getting destroyed by a hurricane without getting _flashbacks_ , but seriously, don’t worry about it.”

Mr. Hamilton’s voice goes a little shaky on the last few words, and Brent steps away from the door, heart pounding. He shouldn't be here, and he definitely shouldn't be hearing this.

He debates shutting the door, but he’s pretty sure they’ll hear it close. He backs over to the door to the physics classroom and grabs the handle again, pulling up then down. The handle yields nothing but the same grinding sound, and he quickly lets go, praying that it wasn’t audible from the history classroom.

Against his better judgment, Brent inches back to the door to the history class. He stands a couple feet back, close enough to hear but not see what’s going on. He hates himself, a little.

“…not your fault,” John is saying. “Honestly. I’m so fucking proud that you even went back to school today, God knows if I were you I would have gone home and punched a wall and broke my hand…again.”

“I know,” Mr. Hamilton responds, quieter now. “But it’s, God, it’s so damn _frustrating_ , I thought I was past all this, I haven’t had a flashback in ages, and now this happens - and at work of all places, fuck, maybe I will punch something.”

“Not a wall, I can tell you from experience that it’s not worth it.” John pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is soft. “Hey. You and I both know…this shit happens, and yeah, it sucks, but you’ll get through this, Alex, you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. And, I mean, you’ve got a stunningly attractive and equally fucked-up fiancé right here with you.”

There’s a tired-sounding laugh, and then silence. Brent hears a few heavy breaths, and oh God, he realizes, they’re probably _kissing_ , his _teacher_ is probably making out with someone in his _history classroom_. Brent’s not homophobic or whatever, and to be honest it could be worse, because at least Mr. Hamilton and John aren't old or anything, but this is his _teacher_ having a _makeout session_ less than _ten feet away from him._

He hears what might be a moan and fuck this, this is his payback for eavesdropping, and yeah he might deserve it but that doesn't mean he’s going to stick around and witness it.

He practically sprints across the storeroom, wrenching on the handle of the door to the physics room, grinding noise be damned. Thankfully the door springs open and Brent foots it out of the classroom and down the hall, textbook still tucked under his arm.

Brent doesn’t slow down until he’s outside, breaths materializing in silvery puffs before him. He zips up his jacket as he makes his way to the Subway down the street, head buzzing with newfound information.

So it wasn't a heart attack the other day, or a stroke, or cardiac arrest, but a _panic attack_. Even worse, a panic attack brought on by a flashback caused by the lesson, and fuck, Brent can’t even imagine how much that would suck. And he's assuming it had to do with the hurricane thing that Mr. Hamilton mentioned, but he’s got no clue if that means that Mr. Hamilton lived through one or something - actually, he doesn’t really want to think about any of this, because he _knows_ he wasn't supposed to hear any of it, and just…fuck.

Also, he’ll never be able to look Mr. Hamilton in the eyes again knowing that a) he eavesdropped on what was clearly an extremely private conversation, and b) Mr. Hamilton made out with his fiancé _in the history classroom_.

“Dude, what took you so long?” Trevor calls out as Brent enters the Subway, the spice-heavy warmth welcome after the chill of the street.

Brent takes a seat beside Jessica and opens his mouth to respond, but then closes it. His friends look at him expectantly.

“Nothing,” Brent says after a while. He owes it to Mr. Hamilton to keep this one to himself. “I - yeah, it was nothing.”

*

They never do finish that lesson about the hurricane. Brent couldn't be more glad.

fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! And I sincerely hope you all enjoyed reading it more than I enjoyed typing it because I hate typing stuff.
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> Will I make this fic into part of a series? Probably. Will the next part of the series by a remix of the first chapter but from Alex or John's POV? Perhaps. Will I write any more super gay stories about historical figures? I've already started another one (but it'll be longer than this one so it probably won't be up for a while).
> 
>  
> 
> ily

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this (or didn't like it) PLEASE let me know!!!!! I am but a lonely child wishing for feedback on my fanfic about gay founding fathers (and I'm not even American).


End file.
